The Substitute
by LithiumDoll
Summary: Eliot is a teensy bit indisposed and the team is on a job, enter the substitute.
1. Chapter 1

Nate liked McRory's after hours, when the only illumination came from the traffic and the hazy red and blues of the neon bar signs. In the midst of a job, when sleep came hard, it was quiet - it was peaceful.

It was occupied.

He stopped short as he saw the figure sitting at the bar, shoulders hunched as whoever it was tapped quietly at the screen of a phone.

Nate hadn't made much noise, but apparently he'd made enough. The man half turned and Nate saw a flash of blond hair and the collar of a leather jacket in the hi-beam of a passing car.

"Hi," the intruder said, and it sounded like he was smiling. "Nate Ford, right?"

Nate nodded; denials would be pointless and, besides, he wasn't in the mood to play games. "And you're?"

"A friend of Eliot Spencer's." The man paused and then added, "Kind of. I mean, last time we met we were pretty much trying to kill each other, but it wasn't _personal _or anything …"

Nate laughed.

"That's … funny?" Another flash of light and he could see the man had his hands palm down on the bar.

"It's 4 am, everything's funny. What can I do for you?" Nate reached across and flicked the switch on the wall; the small bulbs around the bar flickered on. Low light, but still light. The man squinted as his vision undoubtedly blurred, but didn't seem particularly concerned by the sudden handicap.

So that was encouraging: Fontaine probably hadn't sent an unusually mellow hitter to take Nate out.

Probably.

The man turned away from the bar slowly, still hunched to make himself look smaller. Nate didn't buy the harmless veneer for a moment, but he supposed he appreciated the thought. Or would, as long as a gun or knife weren't forthcoming.

Instead a disarming smile came his way. "Actually, Mr Ford, it's what I can do for you."

"We already have a hitter, thanks."

A wince. "Yeah, funny story - not so much."

Nate paused and canted his head. "What happened?" He kept his tone level and his expression clear, thought about crossing his arms, but decided against it. Sophie's voice whispered it would look too guarded and put the other man on alert: the last thing he wanted.

On the other hand, the man looked more sheepish than dangerous. His hands moved as he sketched vaguely in the air. "There was a thing, and then there was another thing, and Spencer – Eliot - asked me to sub in while he's taking care of…."

"Let me guess: _things_," Nate finished dryly. "Eliot Spencer - the guy who tried to kill you or … you tried to kill … whatever - Eliot asked you to play substitute, and you came?"

"Well 'asked' may be a little strong," the man admitted. "He said if anything happened to the team – your team, I guess - because of this completely unavoidable _thing, _he'd come after me and everything I ever loved."

A slightly self-mocking smile appeared. "And I _really_ love my sofa. It's worn just right."

Nate leaned over the bar and fished out a glass and bottle of whiskey. He poured a measured amount, regarded it for a moment and then knocked it back; the man watched patiently.

He poured himself another shot, cleared his throat and then looked back to his visitor. "So – correct me if I'm wrong – you and Eliot ran across each other, let's say fisticuffs were exchanged and by the time you both figured out you were wearing the white hats now, he was too beat up to go on the job tomorrow. Am I close?"

"Pretty close." The man nodded slowly, as if weighing interpretation. "Something … like that. Except, fisticuffs?" He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

Nate ignored that. "The trouble is – and don't take this the wrong way – if you were good enough to take down Eliot, I'd know who you are."

"Christopher Chance." Chance held out his hand.

Nate shook the offered hand; it was callused in ways he'd come to associate with people who handled guns. A lot.

"I thought that might be a problem, so I brought references. You know Marty Jacobs?"

Nate nodded. Oh, he knew Marty Jacobs.

"He hates me," Chance said with complete sincerity. "I think he has a dartboard with my picture on it. And Paulie Franze? _Still_ tries to kill me at least once a year."

"Traditionally, references are from reputable people you would expect to trust."

Chance smiled crookedly. "You trust anyone, Mr Ford?"

Nate waved a finger as he considered; no one was coming immediately to mind, not even himself. "You have a point," he conceded. And he _was_ inclined to think well of anyone Franze wanted dead. He brought his glass to his lips.

"And I didn't exactly take Spencer down – technically, the army did that."

Nate choked on his whiskey and Chance went on rapidly, trying to reassure. "He's fine, really, and my people are on it. He just didn't want you going into whatever you're going into a man down, and there was no way we were springing him in time."

"Your people?" Nate cleared his throat again and put his glass on the bar, pushed it away.

"Sure, my people. They're like your people, maybe a little - a lot - less subtle."

"What did he say?"

Chance looked bemused. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Nate looked at him steadily.

The other man smirked. "He said to tell you he really, really hates monkeys. Mean anything to you?"

Nate relaxed, just a little. "Enough. Welcome on board, Mr Chance."

"Just Chance. So … what _is_ the job, exactly?"

-o-

Through narrowed eyes, Parker watched the man sitting beside her at the table. When he didn't seem to notice, she poked him in the side.

"Still not Eliot," he muttered out the side of his mouth, without turning his attention from the screen in front of them.

"I know that. Everyone knows that." Parker rolled her eyes dramatically heavenwards, as if she hadn't spent the first ten minutes of their acquaintance looking at him first through one eye, then the other, as if trying to see through an illusion.

She leaned closer. "You're, what? Five-eleven? Hundred and eighty … three pounds … eighty three and a half?"

"Good guess." He did look at her now, more than a little wary. "Why?"

Her smile was thin and sharp. "I might need to push you off a building."

He relaxed. "I get that a lot."

Hardison cleared his throat pointedly. "If we're finished with the talking? Eliot doesn't do that, by the way. If you're trying to be Eliot-"

"I'm not trying to be Eliot," Chance pointed out – again. "My hair's not long enough ... and I can reach the high shel- _ow_."

Parker's surprisingly strong fingers released their grip on the pressure point above his elbow.

"Parker," Sophie chided gently, if not remotely sincerely. "Mr Chance is helping us, so stop hitting him." She turned a chilly look his way. "Even if he _does_ deserve it."

Sophie hadn't bought Chance's explanation about the _things_ at all, and she was being significantly more pointed about it than Nate, the pragmatist, had been.

Nate almost wished he had a hangover; at least that would give him a reason to cover his ears. In lieu of that, he spoke quickly before the bickering could really set in. "Hardison! Move it along."

"Hey, I'm moving," Hardison protested. "_They're_ the ones-"

Nate pinched the bridge of his nose. "_Hardison_. Please. Just – Fontaine."

"Fine." Hardison took a moment to glare at Chance too, and then turned to the screen as digitally tagged documents began to flicker past. It meant nothing to Chance, but the others focused intently.

"Fontaine went for it," Hardison reported smugly. "All her eggs are in one basket and all her basket are belong to us."

"Baskets," Nate corrected automatically.

"No, basket. Well, base." Chance looked to Hardison. "Zero Wing, right?"

Hardison opened his mouth and then closed it, but not before a tiny sound of joy escaped. He drew himself together quickly and pointed a finger. "I know you got Eliot arrested by an entire army, don't think you're winning me over."

Chance raised his hands with an innocent expression. "Hey, wouldn't dream of it." He smirked and quietly added, "For great justice."

Hardison swallowed rapidly, considered proposing and caught himself just in time. "The point is, we're good - all we got to do is get Markham to try and withdraw the money. We don't even _need_ fists of fury."

Nate nodded, all business now. "Okay, good. Sophie, keep on Markham. Parker, you've got the office and Hardison, you're pulling the switch."

Chance waved a hand. "And me?"

"You're with Hardison. Should be a walk in the park."

-o-

Three explosions, a sprinkler malfunction and a hail of bullets later, Hardison begrudgingly admitted that Chance had been useful, and maybe even nearly as good as Eliot, and way more understanding when someone – for example – screamed like a girl and accidentally hit him with a rebar.

-o-

Sophie was gentle as she smoothed a Band-Aid over the cut on Chance's cheek. It had been a glancing blow, he'd been lucky, but it was still red and sore-looking, and he'd been very understanding all things considered, so she was inclined to defrost a little.

"Thank you," she murmured. "For filling in. We do appreciate it."

He waved a careless hand and tried to stay still; Winston had trained him well. "Hey, any time. As long as that time is later and Hardison isn't allowed within ten feet of me."

Hardison scowled. "Look, it was dark and I didn't recognise you. I apologised, it's not cool to keep bringing it up."

"I'm surprised Spencer didn't teach you a little self-defence."

"Oh, he did." Sophie smiled grimly.

Apparently Chance had stepped into an old argument.

"These hands? Are artist's hands." Hardison waved said hands. "I break these and you're back in the Stone Age, people. Respect the hands."

"Right. Respecting the hands." Chance nodded. His cell rang and he reached for it gratefully; sanity would hopefully be on the other end. Recognising the caller ID, he revised his hopes a little. "Chance."

"Hey, dude."

Guerrero sounded relaxed, but that didn't mean a whole hell of a lot and that it wasn't Winston wasn't real encouraging. "You guys done?"

The line crackled. "We've got a good news, bad news thing going on."

Chance glanced around the ring of faces looking at him expectantly and turned slightly away. "Uh huh?"

"We found Spencer."

Out of the corner of his eye, Chance could see Hardison tapping at his computer and frowning. Given the private conversation was probably about to become public in a few seconds anyway, he switched to speaker and put the phone on the table.

"We already knew where he was," he replied in what he hoped was a confidence inspiring tone.

"Yeah, turns out we just thought we knew where he was."

"So where is he actually?" Nate asked quietly, a thread of something in his tone that made Chance tense, just a little.

Guerrero ignored the new voice. "You remember General Bak?"

Chance winced. "Okay, there's the bad news - what's the good news?"

"That bar you liked in Chunghwa is still open."

"Thanks, Guerrero."

"Hey, any time, dude."

Chance leaned forward to collect his phone and then looked up at the faces surrounding him with expressions ranging from concern to hostility. He smiled brightly. "Field trip?"


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you so much for the comments! I hope the next part is enjoyed :)

* * *

Two hours into the flight, Winston stopped next to Nate's chair. "How the hell do you do it?" He dropped heavily into the seat across the table and looked expectant. And just a little strained around the eyes.

Nate shrugged vaguely. "Eh … good scotch, good book." He nodded over to where Hardison sat, tapping intently at his laptop while Sophie and Ames talked animatedly behind him. "And a hacker running diagnostics on the plane's systems every quarter hour. That helps," he admitted.

"Not fly, _them_." Winston twisted and followed Nate's gaze down the aisle of the private jet to where their subjects were gathering tightly around the laptop with intrigued and disturbingly _focused_ expressions.

"Oh, it's just a, you know. A knack." He glanced out of the window, then added. "But, we are over international waters now, right?"

For some reason, Winston wasn't comforted. "Thanks. Thanks for that."

Nate smiled and then grinned, because the flight was smooth, the alcohol was flowing, and if Hardison felt he had time to goof off, they were probably pretty close to locating Eliot. "You've got a crew of your own, how do you do it?"

Winston raised a finger. "First, it's not a crew - it's a legitimate business enterprise. We have a sponsor. Second," he raised another finger, "I've only got one to keep my eye on, and that's enough."

"Yeah? What about her?" Nate waved in the direction of the girl who'd imprinted on Sophie the moment she'd heard the name 'Devereaux'. "Alice, right?"

"Ames." Winston shook his head emphatically. "_Not_ my problem."

Nate made a non-committal sound while Winston rolled on.

"And I sure as hell don't worry about the guy who's meeting us there. I might worry a little about the people in his way," he conceded after a beat. ""

"Sounds like you have it planned out. Anyway, Annie looks like the kind of girl who can take care of herself."

"Ames." Winston frowned. "Her name is _Ames_."

"Right, right." Nate smirked and then widened his eyes innocently in the face of Winston's deepening scowl.

"Fine," Winston grumbled, frown deepening. "So maybe I look out for her too."

Nate considered the empty bottle in his hand and decided he was just drunk enough to share. "Parker, Hardison and Sophie, it's about the challenge and the con.

"As long as the jobs we take give them that, they don't need to be out stealing national treasures or hacking the White House or … making themselves crown princess of tiny European nations no one's ever heard of." Off Winston's raised eyebrow, Nate shrugged. "Sophie collects them: tiny European nations … and shoes. Lot of shoes."

"And Spencer?" Winston's tone was loaded and Nate's smile faded a touch.

He nodded to Chance. "Would I be telling you anything new?"

Winston looked surprised and a little unsettled. "What did you find?"

"Just current affairs, but Hardison's been distracted. Give him seventeen hours – a flight to North Korea, for instance – and he's going to dig up information even you don't know. So if you're thinking of playing us … don't."

"We're not playing you," Winston insisted quickly, and Nate was inclined to believe him. In the van on the way to the airport, Hardison _had_ found out that Laverne Winston was an ex-cop. As far as Nate could read, Winston was a hell of a detective, but not so straight he couldn't see his way around a corner when he had to: Bonanno with an ex-wife, a chip on his shoulder and more loyalty than Chance probably felt he deserved.

That was something Nate could use. He tucked the insight away without any particular sense of satisfaction; it wasn't like he'd pull it out unless he had to.

Across the way Winston still looked uncomfortable, and when he finally spoke again it was like he was plucking the words from a minefield. "It's just, he might…" Winston scowled and leaned forward. "My point is, everyone has a history and sometimes that history is…"

"Historical?" Nate suggested.

"_Exactly_." Winston sat back with a pleased smile. After a moment he noticed the magazine on the seat next to him, picked it up and then fished in his top pocket for his glasses.

Nate glanced over to where Chance sat, ostensibly reading a paperback, but actually watching the theatre around the laptop. Parker was sat crossed-legged a few feet from him, eating a bowl of cereal. Well, he hoped it was cereal. Nate wasn't sure if she was still suspicious, or if she'd decided to make Chance her surrogate Eliot. Either way she hadn't moved more than a few feet from him.

Chance hadn't seemed to notice – which was patently ridiculous – so Nate guessed he'd just decided to go with the flow. Quick learner. Eliot hadn't quite managed that, but then he didn't have Chance's patience.

Really, at face value, Chance and Eliot didn't have so much in common, other than the obvious. Then again, face value generally wasn't worth the face it was printed on.

The way Nate figured it; a certain kind of man became a hitter and certain kind of man stopped. The rest, that was whatever window dressing they added later.

So both tried to keep people at arm's length, but where Eliot used irascibility, Chance seemed to prefer a detached smile. At least Chance's approach was scalable - Eliot's efforts had grown more desperate the longer he'd been with the team, and if he fronted any more he was going to run out of death threats. And, according to Sophie, probably throat lozenges.

And both had ended up playing bodyguard, fighting who they'd been figuratively and literally. Chance for the entire world, while his people scrambled to cover his back; Eliot for his crew, while they covered the back of some Joe Schmo who'd never stood a chance.

Both serving sentences handed down by their dead. He poured his vodka into a little plastic cup and then, feeling eyes on him, glanced over at Sophie. She gave him knowing look and mouthed, "Maudlin."

He scowled, the wave of irritation cleared out the dark corners.

Hardison raised his voice and then his eyes from whatever was entrancing Ames at the laptop. "Hey, Nate, you know what we need?"

He could guess. "We don't need a private jet, Hardison."

Hardison sounded a little disappointed and a lot shifty. "You sure about that? You don't want to consider the wealth of benefits involved in flying both faster and hassle free with a global leader, dedicated to meeting your needs?"

"Oh! Look! It has a minibar!" Sophie's smile was sweet and innocent, her voice low and compelling.

Nate pressed himself defensively back into his chair. "Wherever you got it, put it back."

Hardison's face fell; Ames patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. "Maybe you can get a stretch Humvee."

He brightened. "Hey, Nate, you know what we need?"

Nate looked reproachfully at Winston, who kept his nose firmly buried in his magazine, but spoke firmly. "Ames, stop leading people into temptation."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine, whatever."

-o-

Eliot crouched in the corner of the cell furthest from the door, well within the sightline of the viewing grill. Not where he wanted to be, but between the cuffs around his wrists and the chain bolted to the wall, he didn't have a hell of a lot of say.

He'd come around about twenty minutes earlier, give or take, and been preparing for a sudden rush of questions or fists, or both, but no one had come. Outside he could hear shouting, but it wasn't the panicked kind he associated with one of the crew's endgames, so he ignored it.

Despite himself, he started to unwind as adrenaline ebbed away and various hurts made themselves known. Now seemed as good a time as any to take stock. He poked at a back tooth with his tongue; it was loose, but not as loose as it had been earlier.

By the grating sensation, he was pretty sure ribs that had been cracked were now broken, but their pain was a constant throb when he breathed, not the stabbing agony he associated with bone poking where bone wasn't meant to poke.

His jaw was painful, but he could move it. His eye was stinging and blurred, but not so swollen he couldn't see out of it.

Could have been worse. Had been worse, one time or another.

If he could just get out of there _before_ Chance staged the promised extraction – not rescue, no way no how - he'd even call it a good day.

-o-

Four hours into the flight, Hardison put his laptop on the table in front of Nate; he wasn't smiling. "Something you need to see."

Nate raised an eyebrow, and then the lid. A video had been paused in the center of the screen; it looked like traffic camera footage.

The quality wasn't good enough that he could make out faces, but he didn't need to; that was Eliot running, hand pressed tightly to his side, and even on the still frame it was pretty clear he was going flat out.

Once Parker, Sophie and Hardison had positioned themselves behind – or in Parker's case draped herself over – his seat, Nate reached forward and started the video.

A second later, he stopped it again and turned. "Is someone eating popcorn?"

Parker swallowed thickly. "Play the movie."

Sophie made a sound of quiet revulsion. "Cheese and … is that toffee? What are you _eating_?"

The reply was muffled by another mouthful of popcorn, but it sounded like "Breakfast."

Nate pressed play.

Traffic on the street – downtown, Nate thought – had gridlocked. Eliot had thrown himself across the hood of a Hyundai and landed well enough, but he'd checked his six at exactly the wrong moment; Chance had stepped out from behind a white courier van and delivered a right hook Eliot didn't have a chance in hell of avoiding.

He'd avoided it anyway, but he'd been thrown badly off-balance.

Chance had pressed the advantage, crowding Eliot against the side of the van until the only choice was through Chance or nothing.

Nate had never seen Eliot up against a real challenge. Intellectually he knew it had to happen, but he didn't tend to be around when it did. The fights he had witnessed, there was always the sense Eliot was somehow doing just enough to get the job done, maybe even having a little fun, but never that he was fighting for his life.

Early on, it had occurred to Nate that was deliberate, so the team didn't worry – because they had, at first. The sudden shock of violence that most of them had so far avoided had been unnerving, until Eliot had bitched so much that they'd tuned it out. Which, he was sure, was exactly the idea.

Against Chance, Eliot wasn't doing just enough; he was giving it everything he had.

Back at McRory's, when Nate had described the probable fight as 'fisticuffs', he'd been riding on part exhaustion, part perversity. He wasn't sure what word would _actually_ be appropriate for the blur of almost choreographed-looking violence taking place on the screen.

He glanced up at Chance, who was intently reading his book again. Nate would be more inclined to buy it if a page had turned in the last twenty minutes.

Hardison whistled under his breath and Nate looked back in time to see Eliot slammed against the side of the van so hard it buckled; he came back up with a roundhouse kick that had Chance reeling back and still barely avoiding the fist that followed.

They were both fast, but Nate thought Eliot was faster. Given space, it probably could have gone either way, but Chance was forcing a close fight. That took away speed and left Eliot at a disadvantage he couldn't easily overcome.

He got some vicious jabs in, but the few openings Chance was giving, Eliot wasn't taking. Sure, it would end play, but it would end it the hard way and Eliot wasn't that guy anymore. That was what had done it, Nate realised: Chance had given Eliot more and more openings, taken more and more dangerous risks, and probably grown increasingly confused why Eliot wasn't using them against him.

Eliot used that half second of confusion to break away, but it was too little, too late and Nate winced as, this time, the right hook found its target. Down on the ground, Eliot was going nowhere and Chance didn't let up for a second.

Move after counter, counter after move, he manoeuvred Eliot into a chokehold; until Eliot had to capitulate or do real damage.

Behind Nate, Sophie drew a sharp breath and Parker muttered something vicious sounding.

As it was Eliot had almost waited too long: his efforts to free himself had become sluggish and uncoordinated before he'd tapped the arm around his throat twice and said … something … before his hand had fallen away.

Chance had loosened his hold, but barely. Words were exchanged, no way to tell what they were, but the body language slid from hostile, to angry, to tense, and finally to annoyed.

Eliot had been abruptly released and pushed away, where he scrambled to his feet.

Hardison made a relieved sound; Nate coughed to cover doing the same.

From what could be made out given the grainy video, they'd seemed to be reaching a wary agreement before Chance had suddenly shouldered Eliot into the side of van. When the tinny audio caught up the rattle of gunfire, it became obvious why.

Chance had hesitated; Eliot had hauled him closer, spoken urgently and then pushed him away.

Nate suspected it was probably around then that the team had gained their office temp.

Chance had backed off while Eliot had run out of view in the other direction, but by that point the net had closed and although Hardison had no footage of it, the police report had a man matching his description being run down and hauled away by a black SUV just a block on.

Nate pressed pause and felt the others shift behind him.

They'd take their cues from him, at least for now. Loyalty was loyalty, but they needed Chance and his associates and there was nothing more pragmatic than a thief in need.

Later, all bets would be off.

For a start, Chance would almost certainly be enjoying a lifetime subscription to some truly horrifying publications, and Nate could only hope the man wasn't attached to whatever shiny thing Parker was going relieve him of.

He coughed and twisted the cap off a travel-size bottle of vodka. "Hell of an inflight movie you guys have there." He raised the bottle as a vague salutation, and then knocked it back.

Chance winced. "Yeah, we do all our own stunts."

A piece of popcorn hit him squarely between the eyes.

Nate didn't turn around. "_Parker_."

"It slipped," she lied promptly.

"I saw it," Hardison agreed. "It slipped."

"Hey!" Winston stood. "This wasn't Chance's fault – last we heard, your boy was playing for the other side. It was an honest mistake, and you people need to remember whose jet this is." While Winston planted himself between Chance and further aerial attacks, Ames drew protectively closer. Neither seemed to realise what they were doing; Chance looked quietly amused.

Nate smirked. "By now? The plane's probably Hardison's, but if you ask nicely he'll give it back."

Chance cleared his throat and stood. "How about we get Spencer out, then figure out who gets to throw stones? Or popcorn." He looked hopefully between the two glaring groups, then addressed Sophie. "Sound good to you?"

Chance could read dynamics pretty good; Nate filed that one away too.

Sophie's voice was low and warm, and promised her pragmatism extended only so far. Nate didn't have to turn to see the thin smile she'd be wearing. "Of course. Can't _wait_ for the sequel."

Winston looked nervous, Chance looked resigned and Ames looked just a little bit in love.

Nate could sympathise.


End file.
